Eighteen months ago.

Max jolted upright.

His breath caught – expecting claws in his throat, stingers in his spine. The scream never came. No teeth. No needles. No hive-choked air clogging his lungs.

Just... silence.

He didn't trust it.

He stayed still, body coiled, eyes scanning for movement. There had always been movement – pulsing roots, buzzing wings, the scrape of bone against bone. But here?

White walls. A single chair. Smooth stone floor. Too clean.

His fingers twitched, and for a terrible moment he was sure they wouldn't move. That something would seize his nerves again—like the puppet insect in Lilith's temple, dragging his limbs without consent. But they moved.

He flexed them. Again. Testing.

No bindings. No cords. No restraints. His wrists were scarred – but bare.

That was wrong.

He sat up slowly, like the air might bite him. His ribs flared with pain. Old bruises swelled under his skin with every breath. His spine screamed from old hooks – but there were no new ones. No thorns. No parasites chewing behind his eyes.

The room was silent.

Too silent.

Max's gaze flicked to the corners. No webbing. No twitching shadows. No dripping vines overhead waiting to drop their cargo.

It didn't make him relax. It made him tense harder.

This was wrong.

In the fighting pit, he'd woken to howling. The iron stink of blood and the wet crunch of bone. Once, in Lilith's hive, he woke to his own mouth stitched shut with silk.

Now, nothing.

Not even the hum of power.

Was this another illusion? Another prison made from memory?

What new horror is this?

He didn't know what he was supposed to feel. Relief? Gratitude? Hope?

No. He knew better.

This wasn't freedom.

It was the setup.

His eyes swept the room again – measuring it. Clinical. Deliberate. No windows. One light above, diffused like fog. This wasn't a cell. It wasn't an arena. It wasn't Lilith's pit.

It was… clean.

He didn't trust it for a second.

Max stood – half expecting the floor to react. No roots surged. No shrieking alarms. Just the soft sound of his own breath, rasping in his chest.

Then the lights dimmed.

Not out. Just a slow fade, like dusk settling into a false memory. Firelight licked the far wall. Shadows stretched. And from the corner… a silhouette stepped forward.

Small. Delicate.

A child.

At first glance, a boy of maybe thirteen – barefoot, plain clothes, hands loose at his sides. Pale skin. Dark hair. His expression calm. Serene, almost.

But Max didn't move.

Because behind the child's form – framed like a crown – something burned. Faint. Black-red. A flicker of impossible heat. Like a sun in reverse.

Moloch.

He'd taken this form before.

Max's fists clenched instinctively. His voice was a whisper.

"You."

The boy smiled. "Me."

And the door behind Max sealed without a sound.

"Let us talk," Moloch said, still smiling.

Max didn't move.

Because somehow… this scared him more than the torture ever had.

This was calm. Controlled. Planned.

Moloch wasn't threatening him.

He was reasoning with him.

And that meant something worse was coming.

…………………

There were two chairs now.

They hadn't been there a moment ago. Just appeared—like the room had blinked and reshaped itself. One was stone, chipped and cruel. The other looked like a child's throne—small, carved from bone, and far too old.

Moloch sat in it with perfect stillness. Legs folded like a child in prayer, hands resting gently in his lap. The posture made him seem almost harmless. But when he spoke, the room dimmed with the weight of his voice.

"I could hurt you again."

Max didn't move.

"I could put you back in the pit. Back in the arena. Back in the hive." Moloch tilted his head, studying Max like a curio. "And you would fight again. And kill again. And burn again. Because pain teaches. Pain shapes."

He paused.

"But it is not fast enough."

The silence grew heavier.

Max said nothing. He hadn't even looked at the chair meant for him. His arms stayed at his sides. His eyes stayed sharp. If Moloch wanted a dialogue, he'd have to bleed for it.

"I could take your daughter," Moloch said softly.

Max blinked.

Just once.

The words settled like ash, slow and choking.

"She would make a suitable host. Better, perhaps, than you. The red halo fits her well. You noticed it, I am sure. A perfect mind-born flame."

Max's jaw tightened.

He didn't respond, but his eyes flicked upward – toward a light he could never see, only feel. His fingers brushed his temple. The warmth was always there now. Not burning. Not flickering. Just constant.

Gold.

Not like hers.

Liz's had flared red – raw and brilliant – when she reached into the void and dragged him back from the dark. A mind ablaze. A scream wrapped in thought and fury.

His was different. Older. Heavier.

A soul that refused to break.

Moloch watched him like a craftsman inspecting a half-finished sculpture. Curious. Appraising.

"I could take her," he said again. "But I would rather not."

Moloch watched his silence with satisfaction.

Max's fingers curled. His nails bit into his palm.

Still, he said nothing.

"Good," Moloch said. "Then let us speak plainly."

He gestured to the chair across from him.

"Sit. This is not a threat. This is a story."

Max didn't move. But he didn't leave either.

That, for Moloch, was enough.

"You must be wondering why," Moloch said, folding his hands. "Why all this. Why you. Why now."

Max's mouth was a hard line. His stare didn't waver.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Moloch leaned forward slightly.

"Do you know why we demons are here?" he asked. "Why we came to your world at all? What we are, really?"

The light in the room faded a shade deeper. The shadows behind Moloch pulsed – not with menace, but history.

"No one has told you the truth. Not really," Moloch said, voice soft as a coffin closing.

"So let me."

He smiled faintly.

"I will tell you a story."

…………………

The lights dimmed.

Not like a bulb flickering out. More like the air itself became thicker, darker, less real. Max's breath condensed without cold. His pulse slowed. The world around him softened at the edges – then bent.

Moloch raised one hand. Not in command.

In presentation.

"Tell me, Max. Has anyone ever told you why my kind are here?"

The shadows behind him rippled. Folded. Became images. Not real – projections, hallucinations, something between dream and memory. Max watched them with unease knotting in his spine.

"Demons," Moloch said, the word shaped like contempt. "A convenient label. False. We are not fallen angels – there is no such thing. We are not sins given form. We are not nightmares made flesh."

The air shimmered again. The darkness took shape – the first way.

A hunched, shrieking creature appeared. Translucent, skin stretched too tight over spindled limbs. Its mouth gaped wide and never closed. Its eyes burned from the inside. It tore through a screaming human, devouring the soul in one long pull.

"We are apex predators," Moloch said. "Parasites that come from another reality. Older. Deeper. One that feeds on energy your kind does not understand. Your souls are sparks to us. Flares. Brief. Unsatisfying."

The projection flickered. Another human appeared – sobbing, trembling – before being devoured by a fiend in seconds. Gone.

"This is the first way," Moloch said. "Crude consumption. No preparation. No cultivation. Most of my kind live like this. You call them husks. Fiends. Lesser beings. But they are simply hungry. They are survival without thought."

Max clenched his jaw. He had killed hundreds of those.

He understood that hunger.

The shadows shifted again. This time, another image formed.

A human reaching out. A contract being signed in blood. Power surging through their body. A demon behind them, smiling. Watching.

"This is the second way," Moloch said. "The way I pioneered. The way of contracts."

Mammon's shape briefly appeared – faceless, ring-laden fingers tallying names in a glowing ledger.

"We offer power. You offer potential. The soul grows strong. The harvest becomes rich."

The projection stuttered. A Contractor lost control – turned monstrous. His demon consumed him.

"Some are weak. Greedy. Lustful. Unworthy. Their souls are still meals."

Another flicker. A woman standing defiant, arms outstretched, surrounded by fire. Her demon kneeling beside her.

"But some... some are strong. They seek more than indulgence. They seek power. Those become hosts. Or kings. Or something worse."

Moloch turned his head slightly, looking at Max.

"And then, there is you. The rogue. The one who refused the terms of the system."

Max didn't speak. He felt the weight of that stare.

The third image formed. Subtle, at first.

A kneeling crowd. Hands raised. Eyes closed. Prayers whispered. Then screamed.

A golden cross burning above their heads.

Then a hand – massive, incomprehensible – reaching down through the clouds.

Max flinched.

"This," Moloch said softly, "is the third way."

The image shifted. The people glowed. Not with power. With faith. With belief so intense it reshaped the world around them.

"You call it religion. Worship. Devotion."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

"But what it truly is – what Yahweh discovered – is amplification. With enough belief, a soul ceases to be a meal. It becomes fuel. It bends reality."

Max's throat tightened.

"You are saying," he muttered, "that God—"

"Yahweh," Moloch interrupted. "My old foe. My rival. My equal – once."

The vision above twisted. A golden throne. Light too bright to look at. The sky tore. Cities burned beneath raining trumpets.

"He discovered the third way," Moloch said. "And his version was superior. He demanded worship. Built systems of obedience. Created avatars. Prophets. Floods. Plagues. He consumed belief until he became something else."

The more they prayed, the less they remained. Cities stopped building. Children were born chanting. Their eyes turned upward, hollow with devotion. Reality rewrote itself around them – not for them, but against them.

The projection flickered again.

"Too strong. Too pure."

A final flash – chains locking around a blinding form, dragged upward into a celestial void. Screaming. Resisting.

"But he was... unstable. Too much faith, and he lost himself. Became divine hunger. So we bound him. We chained him. The Choir held him."

Max's eyes widened.

"Until now."

Moloch's voice dropped.

"That fool Verrine cracked the seal. You saw the consequence over Chengdu."

Max's mind reeled – visions of the sky splitting, of light that melted flesh and hope. It hadn't been a dream.

"That was Yahweh," he whispered.

"Yes," Moloch said. And then: "He is awakening."

Max didn't respond.

Couldn't.

For a few seconds, his brain simply – stalled.

No thought, no plan, no anger. Just the sound of his own pulse thundering in his ears.

God? The God?

Not a metaphor. Not a symbol. Not a lie carved by cults and kings. But real. A being of light and will and annihilation.

And He was waking.

What do you do when the villain is God? Not a metaphor. Not a mad cult's lie. Not some demon in disguise – but the real thing. The God.

Everything he thought he hated, everything he thought he fought— It wasn't enough. Not even close.

Max staggered back a step.

"No," he said— half a whisper, half a plea. "No, that's insane."

Moloch didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Max's breath hitched. He saw it now – the golden rift over Chengdu. The way the sky had peeled open like skin. The voices chanting. The children melting into light. He'd seen it. Felt it in his bones. But he hadn't understood.

Not until now.

He reached for something. Anything.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed.

The name tasted like blood and ash.

Moloch tilted his head.

"Ah. The first Contractor to spread the fire."

Max blinked.

"What?"

"He was gifted minor miracles. Water to wine. Healing. Resurrection. All part of the pact. A symbol. A message. A walking gospel. He believed he was helping. But it was not salvation he spread. It was ignition."

Max stared at him.

"You're saying... Jesus made a demon contract?"

Moloch's voice was low. Pitying. Almost amused.

"Not a demon. Not then. With Yahweh Himself. A perfect vessel. A martyr and a megaphone. And through him, belief bloomed like fire."

He did not bring peace. He brought ignition. His blood sanctified the contract. His death lit the match.

Max's stomach turned. The world tilted. He felt something in his spine recoil.

"So every prayer…"

"Yes," Moloch said.

"You're saying we're all... we're all praying fuel."

His hands were shaking now. Not from rage. From dread.

Real dread.

The kind that reached past logic and pride and scraped the soul raw.

The kind you felt when you realised the monster in the closet was real— and it wasn't hiding.

It was waiting.

Not salvation. Not judgment.

Just hunger wearing a crown.

…………………

Sensing Max's hesitation, the darkness warped again.

Not like before. This time, it cracked with heat.

The sterile chamber peeled away, layer by layer, revealing a vision lit by fire and storm. The air thickened with smoke. Shadows rose high around Max like titans carved from ash. Ash drifted through the air – scented with copper and smoke.

And there, beneath it all, was Earth.

But not the one Max knew.

This was older. Raw. Prehistory carved in bone.

Temples of obsidian and gold loomed over jungles untouched by time. Cities of salt and red clay clung to riverbanks that no longer existed. Atop the highest altars, men and women knelt with their throats bared and their eyes full of awe.

One figure stood over them.

Moloch.

Not as he was now, but younger. Leaner. Wreathed in black flame, wearing a crown of twisted metal, his hands raised to receive their gifts. He stood beneath the open sky, and it thundered for him.

"I demanded sacrifice," he said.

"And my people gave."

The vision rippled.

Another figure now. Towering. Cloaked in radiant white. It did not descend from the heavens – it pierced them, like a blade falling through skin. Its arrival turned air to glass. Its voice broke mountains.

"And then came Him."

Moloch's tone changed. Less reverence. More caution.

"Yahweh."

He did not speak the name loudly. It cracked the vision nonetheless.

The radiant god moved through cities untouched by time, and they withered at his feet. Rivers boiled. Forests turned to sand. His presence erased the old world – word by word, breath by breath.

"He did not ask for blood," Moloch said. "He demanded belief."

And belief answered.

Max watched as temples crumbled. Statues cracked. The old gods – dozens of them – were swept aside, their names forgotten in a single generation. The humans bowed. Prayed. Gave not their flesh, but their will.

And Yahweh grew.

"He gained strength," Moloch said quietly. "Too much."

The skies filled with his soldiers – beings of impossible geometry, cloaked in golden flesh and wings that spun like wheels of flame. They waged holy war, not for land or hunger, but for shape. For order.

"He created monsters. Flooded nations. Slaughtered first born children. And still, the humans praised him."

Max turned away from the sight of burning cities. But the vision followed.

"He did not want worship," Moloch said. "He wanted monopoly. One truth. One voice. One world."

The fire flared.

And in the heart of it, something else stepped forward.

Not Moloch.

Taller. Armoured in blood and fire. Crowned with antlers that sparked with power. A king. A tyrant. A rival.

He raised a black spear.

Yahweh answered with thunder.

"They fought," Moloch whispered.

The two forces collided – light and shadow, truth and ruin. Max watched as reality buckled beneath their war. Mountains collapsed. Oceans parted. Stars dimmed.

The rival struck Yahweh – drew celestial blood.

But it was not enough.

"He was cast down," Moloch said.

His voice was low now. Heavy with old shame.

"I… fled. Not to recover. Not to resist. Just to survive. That was all that was left."

The vision dimmed. The crowned king vanished in a pillar of golden wrath. Moloch crawled from the ruin, blackened and broken, and disappeared into the dust of time.

Max stood frozen.

This was no myth.

This was history rewritten in horror.

…………………

The firelight vanished.

The projections. The visions. The echo of thunderous gods.

Gone.

Only darkness remained now. Not void. Not hostile. Just the absence of theatre.

Max stood alone in the silence.

Moloch's voice returned, no longer a storm – just a statement.

"You are the only one who can empower enough souls. I need you."

Max didn't move. Didn't blink.

His voice came out raw, like gravel dragged across old wounds. "And if— when— Yahweh's gone?"

Moloch did not hesitate.

"Then I will rule."

A pause.

"But you – and Liz – will live."

Max scoffed. "You're still a tyrant."

"Yes," Moloch said. "But I am the tyrant who understands sacrifice."

He stepped closer, just a silhouette in the dark now. Not a child. Not a god. Just a presence that had shed all illusion.

"You are still fighting," he said, and for the first time, it almost sounded like admiration. "Good."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Moloch turned.

"Then I will do something worse than breaking you."

Max waited.

Moloch extended one hand – casual, almost kind.

"I will set you free."

Behind him, a door opened. No sound. Just light. Golden. Familiar. Real.

The jungle air drifted through – humid and rich with breath and earth. Real wind. Real scent.

No illusions. No void. No hive.

Max stepped toward it, frowning. Suspicious. But every part of his body pulled forward. His soul starved for it.

Max stood at the threshold.

Sunlight.

Birdsong.

Freedom.

It was too bright. Too soft. The scent of real earth clung to the air—loam and bark and something blooming. The kind of smell he hadn't breathed in years. It hit like a memory.

His legs didn't move at first.

"What's the trick?" he asked. Voice quiet. Suspicious. Hollowed by too much pain.

"There is none," Moloch said calmly. "You will leave. You will choose. You now know the cost of hesitation. Go."

Max stared at the light.

His throat burned. Not with rage. With something quieter. Thinner. He barely recognised it.

Hope.

He turned – once – to look behind him.

The room was empty. No chains. No voice. No throne.

Moloch was gone.

Only the doorway remained, and the light beyond it.

He stepped forward – slowly. Bare feet sinking into soil that didn't bleed. Moss that didn't scream. Wind that didn't carry ash or bone dust.

Just air.

Just green.

Max stood in it, knees trembling, lungs struggling to accept it. The warmth. The quiet. The absence of agony.

It felt…

Real.

And for the first time in years, the thought came – not as armour or weapon, but as breath.

Maybe I'm free.

He waited for the trick. For the sky to fracture. For the trees to curl into bone. For Moloch to reach through the bark and grin.

But nothing came.

Just sunlight. Just birdsong. Just—

A voice.

Not loud. Not threatening. Small. Familiar. Impossible.

From somewhere beyond the trees:

"Dad?"

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.